Fear a Painted Devil
by QuiaVeritatis
Summary: Creedy is looting the British Museum. V is going to stop him.
1. Chapter 1

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Prologue

Which V? Movie V. Action V.

Rated G

V and Evey team up to solve a mystery.

* * *

V sat at his piano. She was not speaking to him tonight. He rested his gloved fingers on her keys, but she did not respond to his caress. Tonight her silence suggested that this was a greater problem than he thought. Behind him he heard a door open. Evey. He sighed, pulled the piano cover over the silent keys, and then turned to acknowledge her.

"V. Are you going out tonight?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, you are wearing your hat and cape, and I can see knives on your belt. I didn't figure you were wearing them for me. Will you be gone all night?"

He sighed again. "Evey. I can't stay home with you every night. There are important things that must be done. Some of them only I can do. Tonight, though…" He was unable to keep the trouble out of his voice.

"You can tell me," Evey said. "Let me help."

Let her help? The thought had not crossed his mind, yet…now that she had offered, a myriad of possibilities opened up. V stood and pushed the bench back under the piano. _Later. There will be time for music later_. "Perhaps you can help. There is a good man who may be suffering right now. His name is Desmond Abernathy and he is the curator of the British Museum. I must go there tonight."

"Isn't it after hours? Will he be there? Does he know you?" this last question was asked with widened eyes.

"No. He doesn't know me, but I know him. I have been watching him now for several years. Last night he discovered that some of the men on his security team have been lifting artifacts. He went downtown this morning to file a report. Within hours Peter Creedy was at the museum, in his office."

"Oh, so there will be an investigation."

V paused; he wondered if he told her the truth she might become too frightened to help. Part of him just wanted to send her to bed like a child, but that would not be fair to her. She must be given the opportunity to get over her fears. Face them. _And I need her_. It was hard to admit, for he prided himself on his proficiency. _She can help me do what is impossible by myself._ "No, Evey. I believe that Mr. Creedy paid Mr. Abernathy a visit to threaten him. I can't be sure. My video is perfect from all angles, but Mr. Creedy used a scrambler for the audio and it appears to have not merely scrambled my bug, but destroyed its circuits. I have to go back and place another one."

"Oh. That will be dangerous," she said.

"It's always dangerous, Evey, but I have been in and out of the British Museum many more times than I can count," he said, lifting the mask to gaze pointedly around the Gallery, "And I can assure you I am competent in this area."

"Will you be gone long?"

"Probably. If you want to help me, you are welcome to watch in the surveillance room. In two hours I will look up at the camera, and wave to you."

She gasped. "You will? You will let me go in there? Use your cameras?"

V nodded, suppressed a twinge of doubt. _I'm doing the right thing. Even if she sees me captured, injured, or worse, she will know why I have not returned. That must be better than not knowing, waiting for my return, wondering what has happened to me, thinking I have abandoned her._ "Come with me and I will show you how to use the cameras and the screens."

He led her down to the surveillance room, gave her several minutes to examine the screens. When she had taken in the array, he showed her the computer, sat her down in his chair, and gave her his password.

"Your password, V?" She shook her head, incredulous. "I can't believe I am doing this."

"With this password you can access any camera in London." He typed it in. "Don't spend too much time watching bedrooms," he teased.

"Ach! Really! Is that what you do? Watch the bedrooms of the party members?" She laughed uncomfortably.

"Not too much time. Really." He typed in the code for the Museum. "Now, Evey I do not give you this responsibility lightly. I need you to understand that I want you to listen to me on this." He handed her a tiny earpiece. She stared at it in her hand.

"I put this in my ear, and I can hear you with it?"

"Exactly. I will be asking you to switch camera views and tell me what you see. Together we can discover what is going on at the museum. I will be listening on mine. Here is your microphone." He picked up a small electronic microphone and placed it on top of the monitor.

"I must go now. Watch the clock. I should be in his office in two hours. The cameras for the museum are," he checked the list on the screen, "numbers 1296 to 1445. You can go here," he tapped a key," and each camera has a name related to the different areas of the museum. I will ask you to switch by category, not by their numbers. I know you can do this, Eve. It will help me immensely." He bent down to see her face, was relieved to see that she did not appear uneasy. She looked determined, engaged. _Good_.

"Good luck, V. Be careful." She seemed fascinated by the screens; she didn't even look up at him.

He smiled under the mask. "I always am," he said and turned on his heel.


	2. Chapter 2

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 1

Rated PG-13 for violence

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB.

All is not well in the British Museum

* * *

V moved along the darkened corridors, breathing as softly as possible so he could hear even the smallest sound coming from his earpiece. Evey was watching him, he knew. He glanced up at the wall where he had placed his own camera months ago. A wave of the glove. _Do you see me?_

"I see you, V." Her voice was faint and tinny, but clear. "Someone is in the corridor ahead of you." He stopped. "I can't tell who it is, what he looks like or if he is wearing a uniform, but there is movement, and he has disabled the alarm in the office block."

V pressed himself against the wall. He had already evaded two guards and a custodian. This area should have been clear. He bent his head to whisper into his collar, "Which way is he headed?"

"I don't know," her voice sounded forlorn. "It's too dark and I can't tell from the screen. It all looks like hallways."

"When he leaves this screen, tell me which screen he appears in next. Give me that camera's designation. I'll be able to figure it out."

"Yes, I can do that." There was a pause. V waited, scanning the corridor up and down. Listening. Her voice came back in his ear. "He was on O-5, now he is on O-4."

"Good job, Evey. Keep your eyes open." He pushed off the wall and changed direction. Whoever was in the Museum after midnight was moving toward the curator's office, his destination as well. Now he would have to come about from the stairwell to avoid detection.

His boots made no sound on the polished floors, his cape drifted behind him as he turned a corner. The darkness was interrupted periodically by security lights. He knew where the cameras were placed. Normally he would have jammed or disabled them on his trips into the museum. Tonight he would have to risk being detected by the Museum's security staff. He needed those inanimate eyes. He moved carefully to avoid the ones at the corners, the ones the staff kept continually monitored. Deep in shadow he entered the staircase, the steel door opened and closed without even a click.

Now he was in O-block. The office corridor. There was too much light. Whoever had come into the Museum after hours had no fear of detection. When his eyes had adjusted, he realized with a twinge of trepidation that the light that poured into the hallway was coming from Abernathy's office. He glanced up and down, waited, leaned against the stairwell door. The thirty feet from the stairwell to the office door was unprotected. The other offices were locked, he knew. It would not be easy to duck into a doorway. Should anyone enter the corridor, he would be discovered. He fingered a knife on his belt.

"Evey." He murmured into his collar.

"Yes. I'm here." Her voice was strong, confident. He leaned on that voice.

"Tap into Abernathy's office. That is O-13. Tell me what you see." He heard the tap of the keyboard, then a pause.

"Oh, V. It is a man. He has turned on the lights. I can see him now."

"Is he alone?"

"Yes. He is sitting at the desk."

"What does he look like?"

"He is older, about fifty, I guess. Balding. He has thick round glasses and a tiny mustache."

_It's Abernathy. Why is he here? _"What is he doing?"

"He's writing something."

V wondered. Late hours? Paperwork? Abernathy has a family. His wife, Mary. Three kids, all teenagers. His son a star on the parish football team. He should not be here at two in the morning doing paperwork. An uneasy feeling started to grow in his chest.

"Check cameras O-7 and 8, Evey. Is there anyone else here in the office block?" He waited for her to answer.

"No. I can only see you and the man on O-13."

V started down the corridor, not too fast, slow enough to remain silent. He did not want to frighten Abernathy by walking in on him, but a suspicion had developed and he felt his blood chill in his veins. At this point it might be best if Abernathy received a visitor tonight.

"V!" Evey shrieked into his earpiece, he went down on one knee in exquisite pain, a hand to his ear, writhing against the wall. She continued to scream at him, "V! Oh my God! V! He has a gun! He's pulled a gun from his drawer! Oh no! Oh my God!"

The shot reverberated through the corridors. V was on his feet, his pain pushed aside, he reached the doorway before the last echo died. The vision before him was as he expected. Abernathy lay back against his window, the backdrop of blood like a crimson aura splattered on the glass around his head. He had put the muzzle in his mouth. V moved closer. No need to check for a pulse.

Grief and remorse threatened to overwhelm him. _I_ _was merely seconds too late. No time for that now. _He pushed his feelings deep inside._ Later_. On the desk lay a sheet of paper. A single drop of blood had landed on the bottom edge, like a signature. V lifted the paper, glanced at it. It was too long and the handwriting too elaborate to read quickly. He had no time. He tucked the paper in his belt, turned to Abernathy. Looked at his friend. _Such a good man. So capable, well-read, honest_. V knew Abernathy's distaste for the censor. He knew the man protected, even hid, art and artifacts from the Fingermen. He couldn't protect everything. He couldn't protect himself. But he has protected his family. V suspected Creedy had made threats against Mary. Against the children. "Some rise by sin, others by virtue fall." He reached out a gloved finger and closed the dead man's staring eyes. In times like these it bothered him that the Bard had something to say for every occasion. Soon the corridor would be filled with the security guards, the police, oh yes, and this would bring Creedy out of his hole for certain. He was aware of sobbing in his ear. _Oh_, _god, _he remembered_. Evey saw this_.

"Eve." The sobbing just grew louder. V pulled the tiny bug from his belt and attached it under the desk, near the leg of the table. It might be detected. It probably would be, but since it was Government Issue, they would probably think it was theirs. "Eve?" This bug is the best. The latest. _I hope it is strong enough to sustain Creedy's scrambler_. He turned an ear to the hall. Footsteps running toward him. Doors slamming open and shut.

"Evey? I need to get out of here. Right now. Tell me which corridor is clear." To his horror there was no response. The sobbing continued, but now it had a different tone, a different sound. Hysteria.

_I'm on my own_.


	3. Chapter 3

Fear a Painted Devil

Chapter 2

Which V? Movie V. Action V.

Fun with verb tense.

Rated R for violence and bloodshed

Characters property of Moore, Lloyd and WB

Lady Macbeth was wrong

* * *

_Oh, Evey, Evey. _He takes the earpiece out of his ear, the screaming and crying stop abruptly. He tucks the little device in his belt. He needs to hear the enemy. He needs to clear his mind from everything except what will happen next. Breathe in, breath out, he calms himself. He feels himself balance low, between his feet and his knees. Crouch. Ready. Two knives slide from his belt. One in each hand.

The shouting and running footfalls grow louder. One two three four, he counts, five six seven, he draws his arm back behind his head, eight, nine, a flash as the blade flies forward with all his strength, right when the first guard rounds the office doorway. Too fast to see it fly, it strikes its target full on. Right in the center in the guard's chest, forcing the man back into the hall and up against the wall on the other side of the corridor. There is a sickening thud as the guard slides down the wall to slump over on his side on the polished floor. V pulls back his arm for the next one. _Reloaded, as it were_, he thinks grimly. The second guard does not cross the threshold. V hears his Government Issue rubber soled shoes skid on the floor, squeaking as he comes to a sudden stop. _Yes. You're a smart one, aren't you?_

V is not surprised to see the barrel of a handgun protruding from the door jam instead of a man's body. Other footsteps come up from the stairwell entrance. He counts in his head, one, two three, four. Four more men coming. If they follow standard procedure, they will lead with the guns around the doorway, some crouched low, some up high. Shooting first, looking second. He will have to strike before they take up their positions, before they can cover each other. It is difficult to shoot a handgun accurately while you are running. _I do not have that problem._

He launches himself at the gun barrel, spins as his knife comes down on the pistol, turns about for the next thrust. The pistol whips across the hall, its owner down on his knees with the force of the blow. The knife comes up, higher and higher, back slowly, then forward fast. It leaves his gloved hand and sails down the corridor toward the stairwell. The first guard is down with a pommel protruding from his neck. Behind him the next man gets off a shot. Then two, three, four shots, V feels the bullets' shock waves as they miss him. _Hard to shoot when you're running, isn't it? _Two more knives in his hands. Thwak. Thwak. Two more men down. Now the one behind him has regained his feet, reaches for the gun on the floor. Another knife. This one for slashing. He catches his adversary under the chin. One swift slice and this man is down. Forever. There's one more, V whirls back toward the stairwell, the long hair of his wig spinning about the mask. The last man has changed direction, running away toward the stairs. He turns, terror on his face. His gun comes up. V sees it in slow motion, a pop, the gun wavers _One two three_ V counts his breaths. He feels the bullet strike him, slamming him back against the wall. _Upper chest, above the vest_, his brain catalogs the hit. He gasps, reaches for his last knife. A glitter in his hand, a few seconds of flight, and then the sound of a man striking a steel door. Outside he hears sirens. Inside alarms wail. _It can only get worse_. Quickly he retrieves all of his knives, bloody and slick with gore, and slides them into his belt. He takes the stairs to the roof.

V leaned on the handle before opening the door to the Shadow Gallery. It had taken all his energy to just get back, undetected, unseen, and undisturbed. Blood loss made him weak, and he knew that even though dawn was near, the night would not be over until he had dealt with Evey. He rested a few more moments before braving the onslaught. First he would have to evaluate the situation. She may have cried herself to sleep. In that case he could tend to his wound, and rest. But then she might be glued to his chair, watching the turmoil at the Museum on a dozen screens. In that case he would just have to ask her to excuse him while he tended to his medical issue, or, he shook his head slowly, she could be wild-eyed and crazed. What would he do then? He took a painful breath. _I have made a mistake. She was not ready for this. _

His hand rested on the handle. He had to go in. Had to face what he had done to her. He clicked the latch. The door flew open, he almost lost his footing. She was right there, holding her arms out to him.

"Oh, V. I saw you get shot, oh, god, I saw it. I saw you stagger down the hall. I've been so worried. It's all my fault, I'm so sorry, oh god, please forgive me, V, please."

This was not what he was expecting. He let her support him, walk him inside. She shut the door behind them, locked it. "Let me see where you're hurt," she turned him to the light, peered at his chest. _The wound is above your eye line. You can't see it_. His knees felt weak. "Where are your First Aid supplies, V? Can you hear me?" He could hear her, but it was getting harder to think.

"Sit down, V, go down. Down, right now." It was easy to obey. He sank to the flagstones, grateful. "Tell me, V, look at me, tell me where your medical kit is. Where is it? Just nod. Is it in the kitchen? The loo?"

"Yes, the bathroom. Next to the tub." She left him then. He realized she would be back with the kit and she would be pawing at his shoulder. Was it a through-and-through? He turned his head, put a finger over the small hole. Moved his shoulder. It hurt, but not too much. Perhaps it did not strike bone. She will cut away the silk there. Will I let her? She was back with the kit. She set it on the floor next to him and clicked open the hinged lid and reached for the scissors. _Yes, just like I thought, going for the scissors_.

"I'm going to cut away your doublet here on your shoulder. That's all. Can you breathe? There is blood coming from the mask's nose, V. Are you hurt underneath?"

He shook his head. He had fallen coming back in the tunnel when blood loss had made him dizzy, smashed his face against a post. Smacked his nose. "I smashed my nose. That's all. I can breathe."

"There is some Demerol in here, V. Will you take some?" She pulled at his hand, put two white tablets in the bloody glove. "This is gonna hurt, V. Take the pills."

"No. They make me sleep." He dropped them on the floor. Watched them roll away. Watched her scramble on her hands and knees to pick them up.

"I promise I won't touch the mask, V. I promise. I'm just going to put pressure on the wound and clean it up. Then a bandage. I'm only going to cut away this little bit. Six inches. You can sleep afterwards."

"No."

"V."

"No."

"You can trust me," she said.

"No. I can't." he said.


	4. Chapter 4

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 3

Which V? Movie V. Action V.

Rated PG

Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

V uses his down time to heal.

* * *

V pulled his silk robe around him, retied the sash. Evey had found this Japanese kimono in the back of his closet. He tried to remember where he acquired it. Too tired to think. It felt good, comfortable; the black brocade was smooth and cool and completely covered him. He shifted his weight on the sofa and reached for the remote. She had put it on the table for him with the soup. She had also brought out a fresh mask, a new wig. His piano gloves. _Where is she now? _He tried to look behind him, but his shoulder was too stiff. He rubbed the sore spot with his other hand, flipped on the telly. 

He had spent the first two days after Abernathy's death locked in the surveillance room. It was the only way he was sure to get some sleep and be certain she would not be poking around his mask or his body. But he _had_ let her wash and bind his bullet wound. It turned out to be a clean shot through his upper chest, just missing the shoulder blade and his spine. Lucky. She had become upset when he told her there were no antibiotics in the Gallery. He didn't feel like explaining to her that he could never suffer from an infection again. Ever. Didn't want to talk about it. _She is still worrying. Let her wonder why I never developed a fever. I'm going to heal twice as fast as you expect, too. Surprise, Evey. _

So, those first two days he spent mostly sleeping on the old sofa in there, listening to the police scanner. That first night Evey had banged on the door, yelling for him to switch to BTN. Sure enough, the poppets were broadcasting lies: "Desmond Abernathy, the latest victim of the unrest in London. Shot by a rebel subversive in his office." The rest of the news story encouraged people to turn in their neighbors if they noticed any sign of "subversive" behavior.

V pulled out the suicide note. He read it again. In this case he approved of the lie. Being a murder victim instead of a suicide allowed Mary Abernathy and the children to collect Desmond's life insurance. V put the note down, stared up at the ceiling. _There may be enough in one of my Swiss accounts…anonymous, of course. Fifty thousand pounds would be right. Put the kids through college. _He made a mental note to write a cheque in the morning. The note confirmed what he had suspected before his visit to the curator's office. The thefts from the Museum were sanctioned by Norsefire. Creedy was placing orders for clients and his men were looting the museum to fill them. Everyone received a kickback. Everyone but Abernathy. Everyone but the real owners of the art objects and the artifacts. The people of Britain. The citizens of the world. But the note didn't say that. No, not directly. That would have been too dangerous for Mary, but V could read between the lines, knew what kind of information it would have taken to destroy Abernathy. The lines that pained him read: "Today I discovered what had been going on right under my nose. For thirty five years the people of Britain have relied upon me to keep their heritage as well as the heritage of countless cultures safe, protected and accessible. I cannot live with the knowledge that I have failed them so miserably and so ignobly."

He heard something behind him. Evey. He tried to turn his head. Too stiff. _She knows I can't turn around_, yet she is standing there. Behind him. He switched off the telly, cocked his head.

"Yes, Evey?"

"V. We need to talk."

"What a very feminine thing to say, Eve."

"V. Please. I'm serious. I want to call a truce. Please."

"Come here where I can see you."

"Oh, no. If I can't see you, then you can't see me. Fair is fair."

He thought about that. Didn't like being at a disadvantage, but he was amused by the situation. Two people talking, but not seeing each other. Like on mobiles, but in the same room. "Very well, Evey. What is on your mind tonight?"

"I want to talk about what happened last week."

V did not. He tried to come up with an excuse. _Ah. I am tired. So tired. Wounded even. I need to sleep. I need rest. No disturbances. Bad for my health._

"V?"

He sighed. "Yes." It was no use. _Get it over with_. "We had some trouble last week. It's over. Don't worry about it any more. Just read your books. Watch your telly. The Fifth will be here in some months and then you'll be rid of me and this place."

"No, no, no. That's not what I want."

"What do you want?" He knew this was a dangerous question, but he wanted her to get to the point.

There was a long pause. So long, in fact, he made an attempt to look behind him, to make sure she was still there. He pushed himself up with his arms and twisted his body painfully until she came into view.

She saw him turn, "No fair. You are cheating," she cried, swiftly turning her back on him. He could see she was weeping, rubbing her eyes, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "I want to do it over again, do it right this time. I know I can't, but that's what I want. I want you to give me another chance," she said. "I want to help you. I can't lie around the Gallery, reading and watching the telly when good men like Mr. Abernathy are bullied into killing themselves."

He thought of a few tart retorts, she was so naïve: _every day there are dozens of Mr. Abernathys. Where have you been?_ But that would be too wicked. _I will not thrash her with words_. Her role in this passion play was to be a placid prisoner, here for a year, waiting out her sentence, in this gilded prison…gilded prison…prison…. He felt faint. _It's my wound_, he lied to himself.

"V? Did you hear me?" She turned around. She let him see her turned-down mouth, tear-streaked face, and her swollen eyes. He let her see his wicked grin, his cold complexion, and his fathomless eyes. _She's right. It's not fair. I'm cheating._

"Come here, Eve. Come sit next to me." He patted the sofa beside him. She came over, her little body barely making a dent in the leather cushion. He took her hand in his, felt the fragile bones under her skin through his piano gloves. They were fragile, but strong. He remembered how they felt on his body, how she held him up, walked him where he needed to go, pressed on his shoulder to stop the bleeding. The strength was there. The fragility merely made her strength seem a work of art. She was looking at him now, puzzled. _I wasn't always strong, myself_. _I've made mistakes_. _My fragility, she will never know. But knowing hers..._

She looked up at him. "You are going to do something about the Museum, aren't you? You aren't going to let Creedy get away with looting it? You won't allow Mr. Abernathy's death to be in vain? He is a martyr, V. You can't let his convictions die with him."

"No. I can't let them die with him. I know that Creedy is planning to have some of the artifacts removed from the Egyptian collection next week. Monday night, in fact. His men will not find an empty Museum. I will be there."

"I want to be there with you. I want to be whispering in your ear."

"What will you say to me?" he asked.

She put her lips to his ear, whispered, "I'm sorry." Then he felt her squeeze his hand. Hard.


	5. Chapter 5

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 4

Which V? Movie V. Action V.

Rated V for Violence (R)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"…he had power to beat me out of Egypt."

* * *

V suppressed a sneeze. Sneezing had been a real problem for him for some years now. Almost twenty. He couldn't easily hold his nose, or blow it, for that matter. Sneezing inside a mask is always catastrophic, no matter where one is. The familiar tickle was now worse than an annoyance as he was secreted behind a sarcophagus in room sixty-five of the British Museum. This time he was the spider, waiting for his prey. A sneeze, no matter how tiny, would bring the remote cameras on him, announce his presence to the eavesdropping electronic ears. The dust in his hole was the nefarious kind. The kind of dust one only finds in museums and third rate hotels in Liverpool. Slowly he slipped his hand under his chin, squeezed his nose. Waited for the tickle to dissipate. Success.

Inside his ear rested a tiny metal chip. Inside the tiny chip rested something else. His heart beat a little faster. He could not speak to her, not while he was hiding. But she was speaking to him. And even when she was not, he could listen to her breathing. He felt a strange dichotomy of sentiment. On the one hand, she was useful. _She can be my eyes around the corners, my ears in other rooms._ The feeling of omnipotence was heady indeed. But there was a risk. A concern with all potentates, the danger of betrayal was never far from his mind. She had failed him once before. He rubbed his shoulder under the cloak, now just a sore memory. He did have a choice, he reminded himself. He could have just locked her in his room for the night. No. She deserved another chance. _She is young. She is learning_. He bent his head. She was talking to him now.

"V? I know you can't answer me. The green light is on the monitor, so I am assuming it's working. There are six men walking toward room sixty-five. Are you there yet? No, don't answer, I mean, I know you can't say anything. If you are in sixty-five already, they are headed toward the doors that open into the freight elevator. They have a power lift and ah, I don't know what it's called, some machine that lifts heavy objects on wheels. They are making plenty of noise, talking and laughing. They are not concerned about being caught. Two of them are smoking even, that's forbidden in the Museum, you know."

V smiled under the mask. Yes. Smoking is forbidden. So is stealing four thousand-year-old artifacts and selling them on the black market.

"There are 6 security guards. They are all in the break room on the lower floor, ah, I don't know what room. It is on camera 1523, if you know which camera that is, I mean G-14. And, V, all of these men are armed."He heard her catch her breath.

'All are armed'. _Of course they are_. They would not be Fingermen without their shiny little bullets. He rubbed his shoulder again. _I hate guns_.

He went down on his hands and knees, changed position to view the freight elevators. Took off his hat and laid it gently behind a statue of Anubis. Followed it with his cloak. He glanced at the jackal's white granite eyes. _I'll be providing some work for you tonight, old chum._

The room was still dark. He suspected the Fingermen would turn on the lights when they arrived. They had nothing to fear. The room was a huge jumble of Egyptian pieces, from large diorite statues to tiny little ushtabis . They would wander among the relics, like shoppers in a bazaar reading off a list: "Yes, Muffy would like one of the faience and gold scarab necklaces, dear. See if your friends at the office can get her one for the Montmorcey's ball next Saturday." V ground his teeth together. _Not tonight, Muffy, not tonight._

"V?" They are in the freight elevator now." He heard the grinding of the cables. Heard the grinding of his teeth. He tried to relax, center himself. The elevator doors opened, the metallic sound loud and echoing in the cavernous room. He pulled his feet under him, crouched low. Ready.

They emerged, the first four men, just as Evey had said. All in uniform, all armed. Two smoking. One finished his cigarette, threw it down and ground it out with his heel. _I believe I will kill you first. _Behind them the other two followed with their machines, a power jack and a scissor lift. They were talking, "…Saturday's game where Jake took out the defense…Martha bought me some of that imported German beer for holiday…" Yes, they were talking, like the Museum was a Pub, and soon darts and skittles would soon be broken out. V knew that he needed to control his rage. He always made mistakes when that hot red film dropped over his eyes and he found himself moving, flowing, slashing, coming out of it like a swimmer surfacing only to find waves of destruction at his feet. Sloppy work. It had happened before. Too many times. There must be no blood in this room. Not a drop shall desecrate one tiny relic.

He waited. The Fingermen quieted as their real work began. He watched three of them lift a small mummy onto the power jack. Two others had opened a glass case, _with a key_. He was livid. He put a gloved hand on his bicep and squeezed until it hurt. _Control. Control. Patience. I won't kill them here, yet I can't let them get back in the elevator_. _Can't let them shoot at me._ He imagined the damage ricocheting bullets would do in that room, and the freight elevator descends directly to the loading docks. They would get away. _Would they follow me out into the corridors? Yes._ His fear was that four would chase him down while the other two would push the machines into the elevator and escape. But, maybe not. If he could disable the elevator and then lead them into the halls…chances were good that all six would chase him. They would each want a part of that triumph of capturing the fearsome terrorist or better yet, killing him. They would not stand by and allow their cohorts to have all the glory. Yes. This is a plan. A knife through the control panel will do. Timing is everything. He slid a knife into his hand. Ready. He took the earpiece out, tucked it away. No distractions now. No matter what. He had to throw the knife, then expose himself…let them see the mask, then flee through the double doors into the corridors, but fast enough that by the time they drew their pistols, there would be nothing to shoot at. No bullets in the mummies. None.

He waits. Counts to calm himself as he always does: _one, two, three, focus_…

He rises in one smooth motion, comes up from behind the sarcophagus like Osiris rising from the dead, the white mask frighteningly bright in the white lights. His arm travels back over his head, one second to aim, and then, release. It flies. Perhaps the Fingermen feel the blast of air as the knife whips past their ears, spinning in its deadly arc toward its destination. Like a lover, the blade enters the control panel of the elevator, cleaving it with an orgasm of sparks and smoking ozone.

He spins, dances out in plain view, counts the weapons as they emerge from their holsters, one, two, three, four…he doesn't wait for the last two. They have seen me. It's enough. He leaps. The double doors open for him, he pivots on his toes. The corridor is his. They will be coming, he hears them coming. One two three each man receives his own personal gift as he come through the doorway. One two three , each man's chest sprouts a pommel. But the last three. No. They have stopped. The bodies of their dead comrades block the double doors like Cerebus, the three heads warn: "enter not through the Gates of Hell."

V knows that soon a gun will lead around the door, that the alarms will go off. He counts again, moving toward the double doors. _One…I will reach the door, two…I will be upon you…three, I will leave a corpse._

V opened the door to the Shadow Gallery. There is no reception committee this time. _Where is Evey? _He fingers the laces around his neck, hangs the cape on the clothes tree that stands by the door. His hat follows. No sounds. _She is not on this floor_. A few minutes later he enters the Surveillance room. _Here she is_.

"Evey." She is glued to one of several monitors that light up the room. She jumps.

"Oh, V, you're back, I, uh…" What is that he sees on her face? _This is something new._

"What's wrong, Evey?"

"Uh. Creedy is at the Museum."

_She is looking at me, what does she see? She is frightened. I'm scaring her._

"Good. I want him there. Let me see him. Do we have audio?" He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. He noticed that she moved away, leaned far away, actually. _Is it the blood? I'll change in a moment. I want to see Creedy's face when he receives my little gift._

"Yes," she whispered, looking at him, eyes like saucers. "We have audio."

"Turn it up." Her hand touched a knob and the Surveillance room came alive with the little drama in the Museum corridor.

The camera with the best view was focused on the corridor outside the double doors. V nodded with satisfaction. Creedy was standing there with two of his assistants, all six of the museum security guards back from the breakroom, and at least twenty London police. Ah, and there is the Lord Mayor, and Chief Inspector Finch. _The whole family has turned out for my party._

"V?" He turned to Evey. "V. I saw what you did." Her voice shook a little when she breathed in. _Is that what this is about? _"I watched you lay each man out in a row. I watched you cut each man's heart out and lay it beside him on the floor. I watched you carve something on their chests." _Um_. _Yes. Maybe I should have blacked out those cameras before I started. A mistake. It was that red veil of rage again. _"And the feathers, V. What were they for?" _She is shaking_. _There is nothing I can say to comfort her. So be it. I am what I am._

He tried to sound soothing. "The white feathers belong to Ma'at, Evey, goddess of justice. Anubis will weigh each man's heart against the weight of the feather. Every little sin adds to the heaviness of their hearts. These men's hearts are like lead. Cannonball hearts, Evey. These hearts will tip the scales. They will never enter heaven. I put those feathers next to each heart. Creedy will get the message. The Egyptian curator will tell him."

"And their chests?" Her voice was small now.

V narrowed his eyes. Felt his face tighten beneath the mask, felt the red veil threaten to drop over his eyes again. _Control_. "A curse." He drew in his breath slowly, leaning toward the monitor. _Yes. A curse. One frightful hieroglyph. They will call in the expert who will read it for them_. He touched the lever that controlled his camera, zoomed in on Creedy's face. Reveled in the horror he saw there.

_This, Mr. Creedy, is what terror really means._


	6. Chapter 6

"Fear A Painted Devil"

Chapter 5

Which V? Movie V. Some GNV leaking through. He always seems to come through. I have to let them dance; I have to let him play his piano.

Rated PG

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd, and WB

"The purpose you undertake is dangerous; the friends you have named uncertain;"—Henry IV, part one, Act II scene III

* * *

V sat at his piano. He rested his gloved fingers on her keys, and tonight she responded to his caress. Tonight she will end her silence. He sighed deeply and began a long arpeggio to limber up his fingers. But then he heard a door open behind him. _Evey_. _She is listening._ His hands paused over the expectant keys.

"Yes, Evey?"

"I…I'm sorry to disturb you…I know you don't like me to bother you when you are playing…but I…well, something is happening with Mr. Creedy, and…"

He did not wait for Evey to finish, but pulled the cover over the keys with a bang. His piano cried out in pain, but he ignored her. He didn't even push her bench between her legs, but strode to the Surveillance room without looking back. Evey trotted behind in his wake.

All the monitors were on Creedy. He was using a scrambler, so the audio was intermittent. Evey handed him the headphones. He slid them over his head and adjusted them as he pulled a chair up to the screen.

"Terrorist…V….Museum…had their hearts ripped out…bloody mess in the corridor…" V twirled a knob as Evey took the chair next to him. Creedy was debriefing some underling. Someone V had never seen before. A large man, in uniform, hard eyes, many decorations on his chest, short hair, grey temples, a Major, if he read the epaulets right. Oh, and they were in Mr. Abernathy's office. Ah. "Evey, turn that dial to the second mark." A gloved finger indicated which dial he meant. Evey's fingers touched the knob and immediately the audio became perfect. _My new bug. Under Abernathy's desk_.

Creedy: "I have full confidence in your abilities, Major. I am pleased to have you aboard."

The Major: "I have been following the progress of Mr. Finch's investigation through my department. I assure you I will do everything in my power to prevent this unfortunate occurrence from ever happening again."

The men shook hands and left the office. V followed them on the monitor down the museum corridors until they disappeared into the lift, then he turned to Evey, pulling off the headphones.

"What were they talking about before you came to get me?"

"I recorded it." She handed him a disc.

"Good job." He tilted the mask at her. _I'm surprised_.

Evey pointed at the dark screen. "Creedy has tripled the security at the Museum, and there will be military patrols on the perimeter after dark every night from now on." She looked at him briefly, then lowered her eyes.

She had been behaving strangely ever since he came back from the Museum three days ago. She continued to monitor the array, spending hours in the Surveillance room, more than necessary. V stared at her, willing her to look up. When she did not, he tapped the table. _Look at me_. She did.

"You regret your offer to help me, don't you."

"Ah…No, V. Yes." She shook her head. "I just don't know." She looked down at her hands, started to wring them in her lap. "What does this make me? I know what you are, but…"

"What am I?"

A big tear rolled down her nose. She sniffed.

"Evey? What am I?"

"A murderer." It was the tiniest of whispers.

V laid the headphones on the desk and put the disc on top of the monitor. _I will listen to it later_. He offered her his hand. It saddened him that she squeezed hers together instead of taking his. "Evey." He was careful to keep his voice soft. His hand moved closer to hers, insisting. "Take my hand Evey. Let's go back upstairs. You've been down here too long." She sniffed again, put a small hand in his glove. She still wouldn't look up at him, but allowed him to lead her back to the main room in the Gallery. He pressed a button on the Wurlitzer, random play, then brought her to him, unresisting. He led her in a small circle, swaying. She still would not look at him.

"Dancing with the Devil," he murmured.

She looked up. "What did you say?"

"Yes. I am a murderer. I speak the language of fear. It is a language I learned, not by choice. It was thrust upon me. But you, you have learned this language too. Though you do not speak it, you understand it perfectly well. Who taught you the language of fear? Not I."

"But who taught you, V?"

Instead of answering he whirled her around, enjoyed it when she tightened her grip on him. _Enjoyed it. Good Grief_.

"You won't answer me, will you?" He whirled her again so he could watch her curls fly out like a golden fan.

"Not today, Evey."

"Will you one day?"

"I hope I never have to." He tried to start the dance again, but she pulled her hands from his and stepped back.

"I didn't ask to come here. Didn't ask to get involved. I am grateful you saved me from the Fingermen, and I don't regret macing the detective. I know you feel what you're doing is necessary, but…"

"There is 'method in my madness', Evey. I have not asked you to kill anyone."

"But you've asked me to help you kill."

"You offered."

To his chagrin she burst into tears and fled to the bedroom. The door slammed. _I think I know what the problem is_. He tracked her, opened the door. She was face down in the pillows, sobbing.

"Eve." He sat down gently beside her. His weight tilted the mattress and she slid down against his thigh. He put a hand on the small of her back. Stroked her. She cried harder. In his softest voice he began. He spoke to the back of her head, the golden brown curls, the shaking shoulders. "Eve. I know how difficult it is when your whole world changes. Part of you keeps waiting for the old ways to return. Your mother, your father, your brother. You kept waiting for them to come back and get you, didn't you." She moaned into the pillow.

"You refused to accept that things were different. Would always be different. How long did you wait for them? Are you still waiting?" Her sobbing faded away, replaced by little gasping breaths. "Things are different again, Evey. Stop waiting. It's time to accept the changes. You offered to help because you were outraged at what happened to Mr. Abernathy. Do you remember? Do you remember how you felt when you made the offer? What has changed since that day? Do you no longer feel that his death needs to be avenged? That the government needs to suffer for it?"

"I don't want to become you." It was a pitiful wail, muffled by the pillows.

"You won't. You can't," he said bitterly. "It would take more than a few weeks of monitoring video and recording conversations." He heard his voice get louder, "It would take much much more. It would take a hell of a lot more. It would take…" He stopped himself as the room took on a rosy tinge, counted, _one, two, three, focus…_


	7. Chapter 7

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 6

Which V? Action V strikes again.

Rated R (violence)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily." Henry IV, part I, Act IV, Scene I

* * *

V pulled on his boots, smoothed the supple leather over his calves and tested the fit around his toes. There will be climbing tonight. The soles and heels must be firm. No cracks. No loose stitching around the toes. He was hard on his boots, always needed to be checking them for wear. _One slip and I'm dead, and I mustn't die before the Fifth._ These boots passed his test. He turned to the mirror, tightened the mask. He looked over his shoulder before opening the drawer and pulling out his knives. _She will stay in there. She's been avoiding me. If she comes out I will hear her._

The drawer slid out of the table, each glittering slice of death lay nested in its own black velvet slot. V ran a gloved finger over the pommels, stroking each one like a lover. I _must choose six of the long ones._ He lifted one of the long knives, sighted along the blade, turning its bright sides to the lamp to check for nicks, anything that would throw off their delicate balance. _This one is perfect_. He slipped it into the leather belt. The next one, and the next. Each examined like a surgeon before finding a place in his arsenal. When the belt was full and fastened snugly around his waist, he turned around for the cape. _Still nothing from the Surveillance room. _Yards of black cashmere drifted over his shoulders and settled comfortably around his neck, the lower edges sweeping his boots. He reached for his hat.

"V?" He froze. He had _not_ heard her come up.

She stood there, waving a sheaf of papers in her hand. "Creedy has tripled the security force there. He has garrisoned troops in the Hospitality Room. Troops, V. Major Rumfries is actually_ living_ in the Museum. And the military is patrolling the perimeter with a tank. _A tank_."

"I've frightened them, haven't I?" _I am pleased_.

"You've more than frightened them! They are terrified! But I don't see how you can get in there and out again without…without being…without being… seen. I wish you wouldn't go."

"I have to go, Evey."

She lowered her reports, the pages of schematics, the lists of personnel, and the floorplan for security. "The Museum is like a war zone." She shook her head at him. "They will kill you. What will I do then?"

"Hmm," he set the hat on his head firmly. "I suppose you would be free, and in possession of a goodly amount of art."

She flashed her brown eyes at him. "You're impossible! I'm serious! You should wait until after the Fifth, after you blow up Parliament."

He sobered. "I don't mean to make light of your concerns, Evey. I assure you I have no intentions of letting the Major kill me, but no matter the danger, the Museum can't wait until November. As we speak it is hemorrhaging its lifeblood of art and sculpture. If I wait until after the Fifth there will be nothing to salvage". _And I will not be here to salvage it_. "The heart of the Museum will be silent, its beating stilled by the greed and avarice of the men who have sworn to protect it. It will be an empty carapace of culture. I must act now to stop them. I have to do this. I have to. Listen to me, Evey. You will be there with me every step I take. You will hear what is happening in real time."

"Right. And when that bullet takes you out I will hear your last breath in my ear," she said. "No thanks."

"You have so little faith in me."

She pounded his chest with her reports, angry and flushed. "I've been watching these screens for days. Creedy has that place locked down so tight his own people have trouble moving from floor to floor, and you want to criticize me for thinking you don't have a chance."

He grabbed her wrist, stopped the assault on his person. "Evey, stay in the Surveillance room, or don't. I don't care. But I am going. I'm going to stop Creedy from stealing that Dali. I assure you I have no intention of giving up my plans for November, but I can't let them do this to Britain." He released her. "I will tell you this: I am not going anywhere near that Museum tonight.

"I always evaluate my enemy, Evey, and strike at his weakest point. Right now Creedy still thinks like a thief, and not like a dictator. Being a thief he is he will have the Art Curator remove the painting from the gallery and take it to the preservation room. That is where he will have his own men remove it and take it into the city where they will exchange it for cash from the Indian Minister's men. That is their weak point. The exchange. If Creedy were smarter he would have driven the painting to Heathrow in the tank. That's what a dictator would have done. But he can't. He is still a thief, and he can't pay everyone off. He doesn't want Sutler to know what he's doing. His need for discretion is the weak link in the chain. Do you feel better now? Do you understand?"

She shook her head. "All this time, and you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Well. I haven't done it yet. Wait until I return with the Dali. I'm going to hang it right there." He pointed to an empty space among the paintings he had created to exactly fit.

The evening has a chill and promises to be frigid before he returns. He moves from building to building, alley to alley, concealed by his cape, dipping the brim of his hat whenever he feels the danger that a light might reflect off his mask. The government curfew keeps potential witnesses at bay after 10:30, but now there are enough pedestrians trudging home from their meaningless jobs to keep him confined to the shadows. _South_. _Tonight my business takes me to the riverfront_.

From the top of a nameless building he looks down at the street. He settles himself to wait, careful not to cramp his legs or twist his back. _I shall need all my faculties tonight._

A damp fog moves in as the moon rises above him, obscuring his view of the street. He shifts on his ledge, tilts his head to listen. The cries of the gulls have been silenced by the moon, but still the slap of waves against the hulls of the boats makes it difficult to pinpoint his prey. _Patience_. He can wait for hours if he has to, crouched like a gargoyle above the docks. He thinks about Evey. She is no longer weepy, moping around the gallery. She seems to have taken his advice to heart. She looks at him now, doesn't avoid his eyes like before. She has become feisty, hasn't she? He smiles, thinking of her pounding his chest with her papers.

His ear turns to a sound below. This is not the wind on the water, or water against the dock. _They have come_. He brings himself up to his ready position, stretches his legs. _There they are. _Five men. Below him the men spread out in a commando pattern. He knows each is armed with a handgun. In addition, two have rifles slung over their shoulders. One has an Uzi. His eyes narrow behind the mask. _The Uzi is a miscalculation._ _I didn't hear about an Uzi. Antique weapon._ _I had better not make any more mistakes_. He fingers the Kevlar under his doublet.

The men stop, taking up their positions, waiting for their contact. V quickly descends along the opposite side of the building, hand over hand using the rough stones as toe holds until his boots touch the pavement. He pushes himself against the wall, listening. Two different men come striding around the corner, one carrying a satchel that weighs down his right shoulder. V presses himself harder against the rough brick. _I am invisible_. He has a clear view as the two groups meet not more than thirty feet away. Guns drawn and silent, the negotiations had taken place long before. There is no need for words during the exchange. The satchel changes hands. Something else is passed. The men nod to each other; V sets himself up for the pounce.

He waits until one of the men reaches for the treasure. There is a flash of steel and a dull, sickening thump as the blade strikes the man straight through the heart. He drops, the others snap to attention, their guns drawn, panning back and forth in the darkness. But the guns are pointing in the wrong direction. V has already swept behind them, silently, swiftly calculating the weight of the satchel. _I will pass through them._ _My hand will seize the handle and whip the small case up and I will disappear._ He goes through the motions in his mind with an eye to the Uzi. But he realizes with certainty that a wave of bullets will catch him before he can melt into the fog. He crouches lower_. I have to take out the Uzi_.

His hands shift beneath the cloak and another knife appears in his glove. The gunmen surround their package in a circle now, their guns point in all directions, ready for him. He waits. There. One of them is slowly, tentatively reaching for the satchel. V flashes, the cape whips up around his ears and the Uzi clanks to the ground, its owner collapsing on top of it, a glitter of steel protruding from the back of his head. The guns come around and fire, the bullets scream past him, popping great shards from the brick building behind him. He ducks low, waits for the bullets to stop. Has to face them face on. His armor is on his chest and face. No turning until the noise has ceased. There. The bullets stop. The men reach for their clips. The police will respond to shots fired. He has only minutes. The man with the satchel knows exactly where he is going and the gunmen are between V and his prey. Strike.

As the sound of gunfire fades to echoes, he pulls two more knives from his belt with a familiar tsing tsing. These knives he does not throw. With a leap he slashes through the neck of the man closest to him, his other arm raises, he turns, ready for an attack from the other. As the gun barrel comes up to eye level, V spins, catching the barrel on the edge of his blade, deflects the aim and rips it from the hands of its owner. Both knives glint in the feeble light of a distant street lamp, then darken as he slashes each man again for good measure. V has eyes only for the satchel, now flying away from him in the arms of the enemy.

He comes down from his attack running. The man with the satchel has only a few seconds on him. There is no time to think. All the pent up energy he had been hoarding on the rooftop comes at his command. He can see the satchel and its thief ahead, but the distance between them is shrinking second by second. Unlike the enemy, he is not burdened by its weight. One two three four he counts his own long strides on the pavement two for every one of his adversary.

Now he is upon him, the knife, dull with the blood of three men, does not flash in the dark as it sinks smoothly into the neck of his quarry. He pulls it out expertly in one smooth arc, ripping the muscles and severing the blood vessels. V kicks the man as he falls in order flip the body. _He must not fall on the satchel_. The man hits the ground and rolls as directed. V comes down on his chest with one knee, the knife makes another pass across the neck and it is over. One more slash. He has the satchel in his hand and pushes off as the sound of sirens scream behind him.

The Shadow Gallery. He touched the security code, let himself in. Evey must be downstairs. He was aware he is leaving a red trail on the immaculate flagstones, his cape wet with blood, dragged the ground, the wool stretched out with fog and gore. He stopped to untie it and drop it. _Time to clean up later_. He must find Evey. _Make sure she is fine, reassure her that he is safe. How strange, that there is someone waiting for me when I return. How strange that someone cares that I _have_ returned._ He placed the satchel by the door, long strides took him to the stairwell, his boots announced his presence.

She lifted her hand to him, gestured for silence as he rounded the doorway to the Surveillance room. _She is listening_. She indicated the monitor and he took a seat beside her. He waited, resting. _I am tired. _It wasn't long before she pulled the headphones from her curls.

"I see you are not dead," she said, looking him up and down. "Though you look like death. Smell like it. Do you have the Dali?"

"I do."

"You will be pleased to know that every police channel in the city is humming with your latest exploit."

"I am."

"And their hands. You mutilated them. You cut off their right hands. How do you do that?" She shook her head at him, frowning.

"It's all in the wrists."

She burst out laughing, coughing, choked. "That's so not funny, V," and he smiled. He had not heard her laugh in a long time. _Too long._


	8. Chapter 8

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 7

Which V? Movie V. Spiced with GNV…just a sprinkle

Rated PG

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore. Lloyd, and WB

"…thou hast been all this while asleep…" Julius Caesar act V

* * *

V laid his book down gently beside him, cocked his ear to the stair. _She is still down there. It's late. She should have come up to bed by now. _He stretched his legs out, bent down to rub his calves. His legs still hurt from last week's...exercise. He listened again. _It must be past midnight. She should have come up by now_. _Really, I should just lock her out of the Surveillance room, I will. Right now. _He stood, stretched his arms over his head and replaced the book on the shelf, then moved toward the stairs_. I will tell her that she is becoming obsessive about the monitoring._ It is seductive, the feeling of power one gets when seeing and listening; violating the privacy of others. Very seductive. _And Evey is young_. He let his boots pound on the stairs so she would know he was coming. _She is young and has been helpless all her life. This power must be heady, indeed._ The door was open, he stepped inside, ready to be firm with her, ready to chastise her, prepared to withstand her objections. But there she was. Sleeping. Her golden head lay on the table, headphones askew in her curls. Her eyes closed, mouth open, breathing softly against the knobs, dials and wires that made up the control panel.

He stood there a moment, collected himself. All his previous intentions fled. There remained no more thoughts of reprimand, scolding, or rebuke. The sight of her little body, so vulnerable, so exposed, sleeping in such an awkward position touched him. He had to touch her. _Shall I wake her, shake her shoulder and march her up the stairs to bed like a naughty child?_ This thought blew through him rather quickly. No. He took a step, no sound this time from his heavy boots, stood still and tall behind her. As carefully as he could he lightly touched the headphones, pulled them through her hair, cautious about plucking even the tiniest honey-brown strand. He set them down beside her, then bent low to lift her head from the table. She did not awaken, but lolled against his arm. _I will put her to bed_. Having made this decision, he easily lifted her into his arms, her knees draped over the inside of his elbow, her shoulders on his biceps, her head high against his shoulder almost on his heck. He pulled her close to his chest. _She must not weigh more than seven stone. So tiny. She smells like roses. _He maneuvered carefully thorough the doorway and up the stairs, taking pains that no part of her body touched a rail or a wall, no step on the stair jarred her awake. He used his boot to push open the door to his bedroom.

_I haven't been here in some weeks_. He stood in the doorway a moment. The bed hadn't been made. The blankets were pulled back, jumbled in ridges, exposing the creamy sheets. The pillows were not in their places. _I will have to set her down without a pillow._ He approached the bed, began to bend, but his arms would not release his burden. He straightened again, her head moved on his shoulder. She sighed in her sleep and brought an arm up to his neck, her fingers in his hair. He froze there, did not dare move a muscle. Will she wake? He feared the pounding of his heart in her ear must surely wake her. It sounded loud enough in his own ears. _But no, she sleeps_. _Her breathing is long and deep, her body limp, relaxed_. He started to bend again, to place her in the sheets, and cover her with the warm blankets. His arms locked. His back stiffened. He could not do it. Why?

V took a deep breath, stood upright again. Tilted his head back to get some air. It is stifling in here. It shouldn't be. Underground like this. It is always sixty-five degrees. All year. He tightened his grip on her, turned away from the sight of the bed. _That's why. I can't think of laying her down without thinking of crawling on beside her_. Instead of the bed, he looked at his books. That helps. Their dry covers, papery innards, faithful friends…very cooling to his mind and body. A few more deep breaths. _Yes. I am recovered_. He turned to lay her down again. Yet again his arms would not obey. Very well. I shall stand here until I cannot any more. Or…she awakes. She made a mewling sound, wet her lips and sighed, moving her head on his shoulder. In that moment, something happened. An errant tendril of her hair touched his neck. Above the collar, beneath the mask. A little tickle, a soft caress on his skin, the only place it could have touched him. The only place uncovered. His body reacted, both with a surge of arousal and a reflex from the surprise of it. He gripped her tightly, his arms squeezed and her eyes flew open. She jerked, completely awake now.

"V!" she cried, her eyes wide with surprise. He watched her face as she oriented herself, realized where she was, how he was holding her. She was alarmed. Frightened. She kicked a little. "Put me down!"

This time his arms obeyed immediately and without dissent. He laid her down on the bed, straightened up. He pulled on the hem of his doublet, making sure it covered him. Touched his collar, ran a hand over his head, making sure the mask and wig were properly in place. That he was properly in place. That he was behind the mask.

She looked around the room. "I guess I fell asleep."

"You did." He could get those two words out. No more. He hoped they sounded cool, calm and collected. He was not.

She looked up at him sleepily from the soft sheets, his sheets. His bed, his room. He turned on his heel. In two strides he was out the door, out of that room. "Goodnight," he said, knowing she could no longer hear him.

"V, you must go in there and save her. You must."

V shook his head, would not meet her eyes. It had been so long since he had to interact with another person. _It takes patience. I had forgotten. I am so used to thinking and acting without commentary, without criticism, without compromise. But now_. He tried to think of how to explain, then inwardly rebelled against the necessity. _Why should I explain myself?_ The answer was facing him. Evey. All flashing eyes, a determined mouth, stubborn chin.

"V. You have to go get her. Get her and bring her here, to the Shadow Gallery. She will be safe here. Like me."

Beneath the mask his face twisted, incredulous. "Am I to establish a harem? Good God, Evey." He really was speechless. He shook his head again.

She didn't laugh. "This isn't a joke. She is in real danger. Creedy is trying to find a way to eliminate her without Sutler knowing. He's going to make it look like an accident. She knows about more than just the Dali, V. She knows about everything he's been stealing. Abernathy told her. He left her a note. You didn't see it because he tucked it in her gym bag before he…before he…wrote the other one."

"Evey. It was wrong for me to let you listen so much. I see that now. In fact, I want you to stop. I'm going to close up the Surveillance room. Lock it."

She was truly alarmed, her face went white. "No! You can't! No."

"Look what it's doing to you. You were frightened before. You are more frightened now. It was bad enough for you to live in fear when ignorance was your guide. Now that you realize the extent of the problems in this country, you find you cannot function any more. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't talk or read or," he paused for effect, "dance."

"Who can dance with this going on all around us?" she spat.

V felt a twinge. _She had said just a short time ago that she didn't want to become him. Yet she cannot see the path she has chosen_. _She is traveling that path and doesn't even know it. She is moving this way, but without the epiphany of knowing that she is consciously making her own decision. This is a problem. How do I solve it?_ He said, "A wise and witty woman was once told that it did not behoove an agitator to dance.She reponded, 'I do not believe that a Cause which stands for a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from convention and prejudice, should demand the denial of life and joy.'"

She just stared at him. "There is no life and joy for the Art Curator."

"I can't save everyone, Eve. I'm only one man."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this! You have to save her!"

"Why?"

"Why? Why! Because they are going to kill her! That's why." _She is crying. These are angry tears, though_. She wiped her face with her palm.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her. He knew she would fly at him in a fury if he asked her to dance right now. He wanted to. The words he must speak to her would go down easier if he could hold her while he said them. "Evey. Listen to me. There comes a time in everyone's life where they must makea decision. A decision to act, or not to act. A decision to be, or not to be. That time has come for the Art Curator. That time came for me, and one day it will come for you. You cannot stop this from happening to anyone."

"Why did you save me, then? she asked defiantly.

_Because I was weak. Because I saw you in the alley and fell in love with you. Love is irrational. Your vulnerability and fragile beauty touched me. I could not stand there and allow those thugs to destroy you, something small and lovely growing like a bright flower among the monstrous ugly weeds of this regime. I couldn't stand there and watch them snuff you out. _But he didn't say any of that. He reached out to touch her, but she pulled her hand away.

His breath made a rough sound through the mask holes. He said softly, "Because you couldn't save yourself."

"I want you to go get the Art Curator. Now. Today. Bring her here."

"No."

She stood up, kicked her chair back, furious. She turned her back on him and stomped off. He heard her thumping up the stairs, heard the door to his bedroom slam. Sighing, he walked out of the surveillance room, then turned and locked it behind him.

* * *

Quote: Emma Goldman 


	9. Chapter 9

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 8

Which V? All of them

Rated R for Violence

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"…some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;"--sonnet 23

* * *

V looks down two stories below into the street. In the darkness on the roof he is invisible. His white mask hides beneath the flat brim of his large hat; his body hides shapeless beneath swaths of midnight cashmere. He waits. He would have preferred to watch this townhouse from across the street, but the winter trees offer him no cover in their naked branches and a bright streetlight pokes its nosey finger across the walkway. Up here, up high, it is dark. He has already chosen a means of descent. A drainpipe and a convenient trellis await his return. It's not the best choice, but it will be enough.

He waits for Rumfries. He can see across the street and down the alley. Lights are on in the homes, people are coming home, walking up, going in. Families are sitting down to table together. He can hear the tellys coming on: voices of strangers in the dark. He knows Rumfries will wait until midnight. He shall wait until midnight.

He thinks about Evey. Locked in the Shadow Gallery, blind and deaf, separated from the machines in the surveillance room. His eyes and ears._ She must understand the larger context. _He knows she does not. He knows she sees only her own heart, her own memories, her own fears. _How to share with her? How do I teach her this…connection?_ He knows he can teach her nothing. _I wanted her to see what is going on, to understand what I am doing._ He grieves. She only sees what she wants to see. Individuals. Events. No philosophy, no meaning, no overview...more importantly, no context. He taps the cold bricks with a gloved finger. _She is still caught up in her own little drama. Well, tomorrow night will be the Bishop. She has agreed to help me with that. _He was surprised she agreed. He knew she was still angry about the Art Curator, Miss Bartlett. He smiled. _If only she knew where I am right now_. He tipped the mask listening. _Miss Bartlett is directly below me_. _In_ _her bedroom. She is reading_. _Marx, I believe. I saw the forbidden tome on her nightstand_. Outside Miss Bartlett's townhouse the neighborhood quiets house by house as the lights go off one by one.

V waits. Miss Bartlett is under surveillance. V pulls his video scrambler from his belt. This one records fifteen minutes then broadcasts a loop to the cameras' output. The Eyes will not realize they are blind, but for how long? Long enough to do what needs to be done. He sets it up, activates its wireless card. Lets it run.

He pushes back his cape, fingers his blades. All there. All ready. Rumfries will come armed. He will come with five men. Five men who will be wearing body armor and metal helmets. Not easy targets with a knife. Not from above or face on, and more important: these men wear berets when they are not wearing helmets. Highly trained, strong, disciplined. No, not an easy night tonight. These men are fighters, not Fingermen. Warriors, not cops. Soldiers, not petty thieves. He fingered the knives again.

As with any adversary, he must know their weaknesses. And he does. Because they are soldiers, they train to fight others like themselves. Other men with guns and body armor. _Yes, I'm wearing a vest, and yes, this is my heaviest mask. But that is not how they will be defeated._ He felt a stab of pity, even remorse for the soldiers whose names were the first five on the duty roster tonight. _They have not been trained to fight me_.

A car drives slowly down the tree-lined street. V follows it with his eyes. He is waiting for an armored vehicle, not a mini cooper. And Rumfries. Here is a man with a weakness. Six major weaknesses. V remembers pulling up the Major's service record on his computer. A man with a past. A man so heavily decorated in his youth that he must choose which medals to wear on grand occasions, for though he trains at the gym every day, his broad chest is not wide enough to display all the marks of the government's appreciation. But that was more than ten years ago. For twelve years Major Rumfries has been controlling a desk instead of a commando unit. And he has been busy in those twelve years. V smiles grimly as he remembers the pretty face on the screen. Cynthia is her name. A pixie-like girl who married a war hero, then settled down in a little brownstone to produce five little future generals. V recited their names to himself: Trevor, Graham, Cecil, Derek and baby Michael. He shakes his head, strands of his hair lift up into the night breeze. Creedy is a politician, and places the image above the function. _Only a man with no weakness can stand against me_. To select a man like Rumfries, based entirely on his reputation and past achievements instead of a stronger, younger man who will not succumb to the most basic threats is the height of folly.

And then there is Creedy's weakness. Sutler. V leans against the chimney. I will play that card tonight as well, but now it is time for Rumfries and time for Miss Bartlett. He hears another engine, this one larger than a mini. He feels the adrenaline as he sees the headlights dim, and then blink off. The jeep rolls to a silent stop below him. _Yes, they are here. Welcome to Hell, gentlemen. Lady Macbeth was wrong. It is not childish to fear a painted devil._

Five men emerge from the jeep, he hears the clatter of their rifles as they prepare for their raid. Below him Miss Bartlett's light has gone off. He checks the precious parcel beside him, then touches the laces of his cloak. The heavy fabric falls away from his shoulders; he will not need the cloak right now. The hat follows_. It is time_. He watches as the men enter the townhouse one by one. No need to break the door, they have a key. The better to keep the neighbors quiet, complaisant and contained. No noise. No furor, no attention from the other citizens. He waits. As he expects, Rumfries enters behind four of his men. The fifth stands watch on Miss Bartlett's porch steps, rifle ready. V knows they will not harm her. She is slated to disappear, and then be found dead on some lonely moor. _She will emerge, silent, bound, a black bag over her head. I will be here for her_. _Too bad Evey knows nothing. How happy she will be when I tell her what I've done tonight_.

_Time to go_. He clutches his parcel and vaults over the edge of the roof, one hand firm on the drainpipe, his boots on the bricks as he slides to the ground. The smallest of thumps as the black boots meet the soft earth is the only sound that tells the soldier guarding the door that this easy assignment, this quick snatch-and-grab will be his last. V sets his parcel aside for now. Leans it against the house.

V has a knife in his hand, and like a shadow he creeps step by step until he has reached the edge of the little circle of light that comforts the sidewalk at midnight. He pauses, counting, ready for the strike, listening. He is pressed against the bricks to the left of the dimly-lit doorway, below the low steps that lead to the threshold. This must be timed just right. He hears heavy jackboots on the stairs inside. They are dragging Miss Bartlett down. Now. He launches himself at the guard; the feeble light does not have the strength to flash on his knife. In the darkness the knife comes up from below and pierces the guard's throat, above the body armor, below the helmet, so fast and so thorough there is no sound but a gurgle. V catches the man as he falls, keeps the rifle from clanking to the pavement. The hapless guard is deposited in the bushes below Miss Bartlett's window. One. He crouches. Ready.

The next soldier emerges from the house, notices the guard is gone, and immediately assumes a defensive position, the rifle leading. The barrel pans back and forth. _He is well-trained, but even so, I can tell he is not alarmed_. He knows he is with five other soldiers, in a little townhouse on Acorn street. Not in the jungles of Asia or the desert sands of Syria. This little kernel of complacency is his death. _No one trains to fight me_.

The knife comes out to strike like a serpent, the long blade, sharp as a razor, enters the soldier's thigh. The man tries to scream, but a gloved hand is forced between his teeth. _Too late. Your femoral artery is severed_. There is another slash. _Now your carotid. Ten minutes. Good bye._ V drags him to lay upon his comrade in a bloody embrace of death. Two.

Now he hears the sounds of Miss Bartlett's limp body being dragged to the door by two soldiers. They will be slow. The third soldier is leading with his weapon, they all stop. What will they do? Begin firing? Call for back-up?_ I think not_. They will assess the situation, fan out, try to see what has happened. Sure enough, Miss Bartlett is dropped unceremoniously in her foyer, Rumfries is on his phone…_funny how it doesn't seem to be working, now, isn't it?_ V hears Rumfries tell one of the soldiers to stay with their victim. The other two take up positions at either side of her front door. Another knife appears in his other hand. Now it is time for throwing. He backs up. Must have at least ten feet. Fifteen is better. As the first rifle barrel glints in the streetlight, its owner is struck in the face by the pommel of a heavy knife. His nose is broken, blood pours over his mouth. He curses, lowers the weapon to point at the darkness, indicating to the other soldier from whence the knife has come. Not the smartest thing to do, but it was exactly what V intended. _Thank you for the open target_. The second blade strikes the soldier in the now unprotected throat. _Yes. Ten feet is enough_. "Turn on the lights!" someone shouts. _Funny. Those won't work either_. Three.

"We're under attack!" he hears. _Yes, you are. Come out_. Two more knives in his hands, he leaps up from behind the bushes, comes into view, briefly, so briefly. _Rifles do not work at close range, do they?_ The soldier tries to strike him with the barrel of his weapon. Not fast enough. V's unearthly reflexes are frightening to watch. The red slash seems to just magically appear across the soldier's throat. Four. V has launched himself at the other man already. One little burst, pop pop pop from the rifle, the shots are wild, go up into the sky, the rifle clanks to the ground, silent. Silence also takes the soldier who carried it. His body lies twitching in its own blood, rivulets cascade down Miss Bartlett's front stoop. Five. V stands erect in the doorway. _Shoot me, Major_. And the major does. His service revolver comes up. V counts, one two three four five six. _That how many steps it takes to close the distance between us. Funny how it comes out even that way, one step for every shot_. V reaches for the empty pistol, snatches it and throws it into the next room.

"Good Evening, Major."


	10. Chapter 10

"Fear a Painted Devil"

Chapter 8 part two

Which V? All of them

Rated PG

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd and WB

"…Our fears do make us traitors."—the Scottish Play. Act IV, Scene II

* * *

Major Rumfries stood before him, pale but showing no other sign that he felt like a prisoner. V glanced down at the young woman who lay at his feet, a black bag over her head. "Take off the hood, Major. Release her hands." The Major did not move, and V did not like the steely look that came into his eye. "Do it now, Major." Still the Major made no move, though his eyes shifted to the doorway and back to V. "Yes, there were shots fired, and no, I'm afraid the good citizens in this neighborhood will find it difficult to dial the emergency number." V moved his arm and a long knife appeared in his glove. It will be better for all of us if you comply, Major."

Rumfries knelt. He pulled the black bag from Miss Bartlett's head, used his key to unlock her cuffs. She staggered to her feet, blinking, her blue eyes wide, but V was relieved to see the good sense that he saw reflected in them. No hysterics from this woman. She smoothed her blond hair back from her face, touched her swollen lip with her finger, sized up the situation in a heartbeat. She looked from V to the Major, back to V, her eyes took in the long blade touching the Major's neck. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth set as V saw the muscles of her jaw contract. Her hand flew back and with surprising force for one so slight slapped the major full in the face. The Major flinched, but did not otherwise react. V could not suppress a laugh. Miss Bartlett has made a decision to act.

"Miss Bartlett, if you please. I would greatly prefer that you leave the violence to me. I assure you Major Rumfries will regret any pain he has caused you this evening." V moved the tip of the knife to the soft spot above the Major's carotid. He could feel the pulse through the blade. He knew the Major could feel the blade with his pulse.

"Who are you?" she asked him.

"Miss Bartlett. Let us conclude our business tonight before we enter into any pleasantries."

"Our business?"

"Yes, if you would do me the honor of stepping outside and looking in the bushes beneath your sitting room window. You will find an old satchel. Please bring that inside. Be careful with it. And watch your step. The porch seems to be a bit slippery tonight."

She obeyed him, stepping carefully around the bodies that lay between her and the front garden.

"And now for you, Major. I have something for you." V took a step closer, stroked the major's neck with the tip of his blade. "I have a task for you. Miss Bartlett, who you see coming through the door carrying a satchel, will need a military escort tonight."

"What?" Miss Bartlett had heard the last sentence.

"Yes, Miss Bartlett. You will be paying a visit to Chancellor Sutler tonight. In his bunker."

"What? No I'm not. You're insane."

_Ah, touché_. "I believe you fully understand the situation at the Museum." _Yes, your eyes are fearful now. I must know everyone's weakness, and yours is your passion for the Museum, Miss Bartlett_. "Until you visit the Chancellor, the museum will never be safe. Ever. And neither will you, Miss Bartlett."

"Call me Violet, please, Mr. Terrorist."

"Violet. Do you understand what I am saying to you?

She glanced at the Major. "Yes. I do. But I have to tell you that there is no guarantee that the Major will comply, or that I will get in to see Chancellor Sutler. Please don't leave me alone with him. He may not allow me in. He never sees anyone, you must know that."

"I do. But tonight you have something that no one else has. You have a Golden Ticket, Violet."

"A what?"

Please open your satchel. Carefully."

He watched as she knelt down to pull apart the mouth of the satchel, one eye always on the major. He watched with pleasure as she pulled out the packing material. He watched her face as she reached in and slowly brought out the missing Dali.

"Oh my god!" Her voice broke as she touched the tiny painting. "Here it is. And it's not damaged, it's not ruined."

"No. It is quite safe. And that little painting will grant you admission into the Chancellor's bunker."

"Will it?" She looked apprehensively at the Major.

"Major. I believe I have _your_ Golden Ticket." V wiped the bloody blade across the major's neck, then moved it lower, pressing the point against the Major's genitals. "These dangly bits have been busy the last few years. I believe you have six very good reasons to deliver Miss Bartlett safely to the Chancellor tonight. Those reasons…" Here V let his voice soften to a whisper. _This is just between the two of us, Major_, "Trevor, your eldest, Graham with the dark eyes," the Major's face paled with the pronunciation of each name, "Cecil with the blond curls, takes after his grandmother. Derek, who wants to be a football star, and the little one, Michael, who just cut his third tooth yesterday; isn't that right? And Cynthia. How will she feel, holding the lifeless bodies of her little ones?" He whispered the last line with as much savagery as he could draw up from his own tortured soul and pressed the knife hard enough so the Major would feel the bite. The Major went green around the mouth. _Yes. This man has an easy weakness._

"Violet, I believe you will now be able to trust the Major with your life. Other lives depend upon it. When you get to the Chancellor, please tell him about your adventures in the Museum after hours and your intimate discovery from the late, unfortunate Mr. Abernathy. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly."

"Major Rumfries would like to give you a ride in his jeep." V bowed to her, removed his knife from Rumfries' groin. "I think the Chancellor will be very happy with his choice for the new Museum Curator. I am certain Mr. Abernathy would have been pleased."

"What are you saying?"

V tipped his mask. "Miss Bartlett, Violet, you are a remarkable woman. I am proud to know you. I am counting on you to protect the heritage of the British people and be caretaker to the heritage of countless cultures for many years to come. Good-bye." He bowed low and was gone.

In the Shadow Gallery he looked for Evey. _She is sleeping_. _I won't wake her. I must spend the rest of the night in the Surveillance room. I am confident that Rumfries will be an exemplary bodyguard, but I prefer to watch and be sure, especially since I have no intention of murdering his little children. I am not Richard III. That is _my_ weakness, but Rumfries does not know that, so it is also my strength. I need to see that Violet gets safely inside, and then I will sleep. _He pulled the flak jacket off, tossed it on the floor, rubbed his chest. _I hate being shot. Damn, it hurts_. _Every time_.

_In twelve hours I will be at the Cathedral. Will I have time?_ He did the calculations. _I must have at least six hours sleep. Some food. I must watch Sutler's bunker. _He locked himself in the Surveillance room. _I will tell Evey all about what happened tonight over dinner, after the Bishop. I will prepare her favorite meal, give her some wine._ _She will like that. And when she finds out about Miss Bartlett_…the pain in his chest faded away. _She will forgive me. Perhaps then she will dance_.


	11. Chapter 11

Fear a Painted Devil

Epilogue

Rated PG

* * *

The door to the Shadow Gallery clicked shut behind him. V dumped his hat, his cloak, his vest, his knife belt to the floor. _I am numb_. _She is gone_. _There will be no wine tonight, no dinner, no dancing…no forgiveness. Already the Gallery felt different. After twenty years, these few weeks have changed everything. _He dragged his boots on the flagstones as he made his way to the center of the room. There. The piano bench blocked his path to the stairs. Still skewed out of place from last week. He touched it. Let himself sink slowly down to sit upon it. He needed to breathe. _I am exhausted_. The piano spoke to him. "V, my love, you have returned. You have been gone so long. Where have you been? I've missed you." He turned his head to look at her. 

_She is so beautiful with her polished surfaces, her gentle curves. Look at this dust. And there. A water ring! No!_ He rubbed the watermark with his glove. It came off. He sighed with relief. _You are not marred for life. Your scars come off with a caress_.

Touch me, she said.

He straightened the bench, opened her cover. There lay her ivory teeth, her ebony lashes. He touched them, the sound filled the empty Gallery. First the scales, then an F minor chord. His weariness faded with the sounds. _What shall we play?_ He asked her.

I love you, she said.

_Ah, yes. You have always been faithful. Always here. Always, in all ways_…his fingers stroked the keys. He swayed into her. _Here I am. I have come home to you. You always tell me how I am feeling. _The sounds of Beethoven emerged from his fingers, Sonata 23, the Appassionata. He stopped. Yet, something was not right. _Something is wrong_. He froze there, bent over her keys, hands poised reaching to her. _Yes. That is it_. He yanked at the gloves, threw them down. His naked hands now caressed her keys, the sounds that emerged filled the Gallery with his soul.


End file.
